Mirror My Obsession
by Sarryn
Summary: Carrot falls into Sacher Torte's dark embrace. (one-shot, SLASH, torture, coercion)


Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Sorcerer Hunters, but that hasn't stopped me from writing about them.  
  
Warning: This story contains the themes of torture, sex, and male/male relationships. If any of these may offend you, then stop reading. If, however, you do read this, in spite of my warnings, and find it offensive, then I have to say it is your own fault. This scene is of an erotic nature, but I have attempted to write it as tastefully as my ability allows.  
  
Note: I will not accept any flames, however, comments and criticisms are welcome. I am under the assumption that anyone reading this has a clear understanding of the difference between flames and criticisms so I don't have to explain it. Here are some reason why I don't accept flames: 1) they generally include an attack on the author's character without regard to previous or future works that may or may not be in the same vein, 2) not only are they childish, but they make the writer of them sound immature and not old enough to read the material contained herein, 3) flames help neither the author nor the flamer to improve the work and, therefore, are not constructive, 4) if something is so offensive as to elicit the impulse to flame then it is better forgotten and not dwelled upon, 5) you waste time writing it and I waste time reading and then deleting it, 6) it won't do you any good to point out my lack of scruples, morals, intelligence, sanity, etc., because not only don't I care, but I won't listen.  
  
So, anyway, please review and no flames. Carrot's the gift that just keeps on giving, especially when a man is doing the taking. ;)  
  
Dedicated to the wonderful and incomparable Teno Hikari, who bugged me nonstop until I finished this. We love ya, girl!  
  
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Mirror My Obsession  
  
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A cord stretches taut within my chest. An unseen hand plucks at it. Suddenly its reverberations rip me from the tender arms of dreams. I plummet into the waking world upon the flaming wings of somnolence. Gasping for pitiful breath, I clutch a hand over my throbbing heart. The gentle crackle of the fire, sleeping breaths of my companions, and the rhythmic noises of the night press in on me.   
  
And I have been summoned.  
  
The master of my worst nightmares has strummed the fragile strings of my heart-organ and bade me to come. I must go to him and offer my body up upon his alter of bittersweet subjugation. I am the sacrificial lamb, but this lamb knows of the bloodletting to come.   
  
They, my companions, have no clue, however. They continue to drift in their silvery boat of dreams. I watch their untroubled faces, their naïve faces. Oh, they know the horror that dwells in this land of turmoil, but they only know the surface darkness. I am intimately acquainted with the shadows that gather just below the feathered edges of day. I have seen the Night.   
  
And it is my sacrifice that keeps them in the day world. He, the master of my nightmares, has made a deal with me. He need not do so, we both know this, but he does for the sake of his own amusement. I would have rather never seen his face, never felt the touch of his hands upon my flesh. But for this he will not come down from the palace of pain and shadows to lay my strong companions low.   
  
He will not use his power to kill them.   
  
Though his minions may fight us, he will not lift a hand to aid them. And all this is dependent upon his twisted desire for my body. I cannot fathom why he is so focused on me. No, that is a lie. I do know. I know all too well. After all, he has whispered darkly to me throughout these nights when he summons me.  
  
I am his power.  
  
I am his.   
  
With great care I stand up. Leaves and twigs litter the ground. They are noises waiting to awaken my companions. That cannot happen. Their lives rest in my clumsy hands, though they do not know this. I would never tell them. They wouldn't understand. Yet, this is the only true way I can protect them.  
  
Or perhaps that is how I assuage my guilty conscience.  
  
My pathetic excuses to cover…  
  
Gingerly I exit the small clearing where we have decided to camp for the night. I follow the tug in my lungs. I follow the invisible cord strangling me. It always leads to him--always.   
  
Through darkened tree trunks I slip, as if it is I who is doing wrong. Well, perhaps I am. What I am about to do...What I will let him do...to me. And do I acquiesce gladly? No. Yes. Maybe. I don't know.   
  
I stop before the mirror, his mirror. He has told me quite extensively about this deceptively unadorned oval. I can't remember anything but the smoky cadence of his voice. Yet, I do know that it allows me access to a place outside of time, outside of the war. It is his place and it is mine--ours, I suppose then, by default. There are no politics there, just us--and his hunger, his greed, and my surrender.   
  
The mirror reflects my determined image for a moment. I briefly meet the brown eyes of a stranger. These haunted orbs, these darkened, untrustworthy eyes cannot be mine. Surely not! But they are. I have changed; he has changed my mutable being. He has reached down in the roots of my soul and ripped me open for his clinical inspection. With the scientific patience that is inherent in his every motion, he slices me up and discards that which he finds unsatisfactory. And I let him, dear gods.  
  
I have even begged...  
  
Yes, dammit, I have begged for his defilement. I have pleaded with him to take me in the most base and animalistic fashion. And he complies with a cruelly amused laugh. He indulges me when he sees fit. It is a game to him, after all. I am his wicked plaything, his personal pleasure-toy.   
  
And all this indignity for them! They who will never know, will never guess. Always them.   
  
But with him there is only us, only me and the uncontrolled fires burning me into concupiscent ashes.   
  
I touch the smooth surface. My hand tingles for a moment and the glass ripples outwards. Then my hand passes through and so too does the rest of my body. For a single heartbeat I am doused in a cold that penetrates the bone marrow and freeze all it touches. Then I stumble into a world of soft shadow and moist secrets.   
  
"You've come," he purrs huskily. His hungry eyes--always hungry--devour me rapaciously across the room. His gaze slices through the thick air and penetrates the inner folds of my mind. I have to wonder if he is a mind reader.   
  
I make no witty comeback. I have learned to curb my errant tongue under his patient tutelage. He has taught me a much better use for it.   
  
He has taught me many things, pain and pleasure and the blurred line between them.   
  
It's not so much of a line as an inchoate distinction of the human mind, easily overridden by the body. I should know, I have intimate experience with this.   
  
With methodical precision I begin to strip under this burning gaze. He likes a bit of a show and I oblige. Despite myself, I am aroused. Yes, the blatant perusal of my nude form by his dark eyes elicits a shiver of anticipation. He reclines elegantly upon the burgundy sheets like some great feline, eyes always watching.   
  
"Come here."  
  
I obey with more willingness than I can forgive myself for. I want to feel the harsh scrape of blunt fingernails upon my flesh, teeth drawing blood and…Yes, I want all of this baseness, this cruelty.   
  
"So obedient," he murmurs as I crawl onto the bed. Warm hands cup my face and burning lips scorch mine. I lean into the touch, so good, so wrong.   
  
He bites my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. I whimper softly, heat flaring insidiously between my legs. His velvet voices whispers darkly into my yielding mouth. He imparts small bits of flattery wrapped in degradation. Slut, sweet little wanton whore. And I am, aren't I? Why else would I so willingly allow him to do this to me?  
  
He gathers me up onto his lap and cards his hands through my spiky hair. I inhale the musky fragrance of his skin. For a moment I can delude myself of the safety of his arms. Lightly the pads of his fingers run down the length of naked spine. Shivers burn across my skin. Taut moans leave my mouth. This is too good.   
  
"I'm going to hurt you," he tells me softly, almost lovingly. "I'm going to make you scream." He pushes me down onto my stomach with that terrifying promise.  
  
The first incision blooms just above my left shoulder blade. I whimper softly. The blade dances across my skin. My cries grow louder as it slices through the meat of my back. And he chuckles. Writhing to escape the pain and scalpel, I scream for him just the way he likes it. He doesn't stop. The blood-slicked instrument carves down to the back of my knees. My back is a sea of fire. Every crimson slash breaks into me.  
  
"So beautiful," he murmurs as his hot, wet tongue laps against his marks. Agonized sobs burst past my lips as salty tears leak from the corners of my eyes. I think I'm begging him to stop, please, oh please, stop. It hurts, please.   
  
"Just a reminder." Yes, I know. Pale scars already decorate my body, what's a thousand more?  
  
This is for them. I just have to keep telling myself that—!  
  
I arch up with a scream. The cold wine dribbles down my back. Oh gods, I can't do this. I can't.   
  
"Shh." He cradles me to his chest in some obscene parody of paternal care. Mewling with fright and pain, I cling shamelessly to him. He brings me pain, but he also has the power to take it away.   
  
His hands wander down my abused back and trail sparkles of sharp agony behind. One hand moves to my chest. I look into his eyes, then away. There is too much in his eyes. I can see worlds in his eyes. I can see death.   
  
Stroking lightly he caresses me. Gentling lips brush against my eyelids and urge them closed. In darkness there is safety. When blind, I can avoid the truth. At least he grants me this small mercy.   
  
One of his skilled hands encircles my flagging arousal while the other trips down the length of my curved spine. Playfully it pauses just above the cleft of my ass. I shiver with nervous anticipation. He never spares me the harsh moment of penetration. He never uses anything to ease the experience.   
  
With too much skill he has me writhing against him. My hips thrust frantically up into his pumping hand. So good. Need more…more friction. Oh gods. Oh gods.   
  
Oh shit!  
  
A small whimper passes my swollen lips as he slips a finger inside. I'm not a virgin, thanks to him, but, still, it feels unnatural. And kinda nice. Oh! The pressure on my erection hasn't abated and the thrusting, piercing finger adds just a little pain to bring everything up to that next level.  
  
"Very nice," he breathes against my strained neck. Very.  
  
Another finger and I'm in a pleasurable heaven. Hips rocking against the heated ministrations of his hands, I beg him again. More. More! Please! He laughs and gives it to me. I exhale a moan. The finger is replaced by his erection. Oh gods. I scream and whimper and dig my nails into his shoulders. Every time feels makes me feel like a damned virgin.   
  
It's agony and ecstasy.   
  
Slowly he takes me again. Slowly he possesses that which I had once thought to be mine: my body.   
  
No choice. Never a choice.   
  
Ah!  
  
He begins a slow rocking thrust of his hips. I swear I can taste him in my throat. I'm panting harshly, pushing back against him like whore, and he loves this. I love it. Heat lashes through my body. Oh gods. Oh gods!  
  
Everything tightens. Pressure clenches about me. I throw back my head and scream my release. Sticky dampness flows over his methodically pumping hand. Breathless and defeated, I sag against him. He's still rock-hard inside of me.   
  
Carelessly he slides out. I moan against the sensation. After raking blunt nails down my chest he flips me over onto my stomach. I have a moment to triumph over vertigo before he thrusts back in.   
  
Shit!  
  
Face planted in the pillow, muffling my weak moans, I wriggled against him. He pounds into me silently. My body jerks with his every thrust. Too much. Too much. I have nothing left in me. I am now simply a clasping vessel for his own pinnacle. Empty and carved out.   
  
And he achieves climax with the softest of sighs. Liquid heat spurts inside me and it is over. But not really. Delicately he reopens the cuts upon my back. I am too weak, my throat too raw, to protest.  
  
Smelling heavily of sex, he gathers me close. I am a child in his embrace. He is almost paternal in the manner in which he carries me to a large circular tub. Gently he cleanses the still-bleeding wounds. It really wouldn't do for me to get an infection. I acquiesce in a daze of resignation.   
  
"You used to fight," he murmurs hotly against my ear. No response is required. "Now you're so compliant." Perhaps this is because I have been broken?  
  
He lifts me out as if I weigh nothing. Tenderly he towels me dry and dresses me. He is so gentle now, as if he had never sliced open my back and carved bloody poetry across my flesh. I have a hard time reconciling these two sides of the man, the demon.   
  
"Till next time."  
  
I pass through the mirror and am back in the world I know. Aching and beaten, I stagger back to the campsite.  
  
For some reason I am strangely relaxed, as if a great burden has been temporarily lifted from my weary shoulders.   
  
He has freed me even as he binds me. 


End file.
